


Son of the Elvhen

by katiebour



Series: Love is a Battlefield [2]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Fractured Fairy Tale, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Quest, Riddles, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-02
Updated: 2011-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:17:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiebour/pseuds/katiebour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the k!meme asking for a retelling of classic fairy tales by Varric.  :)</p><p>This is my retelling of the story of Turandot, featuring Zevris! This is a pairing I hadn't yet slashed, hehe.</p><p>Turandot means "daughter of Turan" in Persian. Just in case you were wondering about the title of this fill, I had to come up with something equivalent.</p><p>As some of you might guess by audience's interjections, this is a sequel of sorts to Love Is A Battlefield.</p><p>Cookies if you can identify the inspiration for Zev's dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Son of the Elvhen

In the alienage of the city of Kirkwall there lived an exiled elvhen prince named Fenris, famed for his striking looks and many talents.  He could fight like a demon and move through solid objects as if he were a ghost, and when he played the lute and sang in a low, rich voice, birds and grubby little elvhen children gathered around to listen in awe.  He played cards with an inscrutable face and could win coin even from the most skilled of dwarves and pirates.

Of course, such exceptional qualities caught the attention of many a suitor, although Fenris cared for none.  Indeed, if it were left to him, he would wander alone through the world, more ghost than man, tied to nothing and no one.

Nevertheless, there came a time when the Keeper of the alienage insisted that he choose a spouse, if only to stop the incessant gifts of wilting flowers or knitted potholders that found their way to the elf's doorstep, day after day after day.  Fenris refused, but it did him little good, for what the Keeper lacked in sense she more than made up for in stubbornness.  Finally, the prince appeared to consent, but only under certain conditions, and these became the Law.

From that day forward, if a suitor wished to wed Fenris, he had first to choreograph an inspired dance routine around the vhenadahl tree, and once the collective attention of the alienage had been gathered, three riddles of the Keeper's making would be posed to the suitor.  If he answered all three correctly, he would win the hand of the prince.  If he failed, he forfeited his life-

 **Merrill interrupted.  "No, Varric, that's a terrible story.  I'd never make anyone forfeit their life for Fenris' hand-"**

 **Fenris growled in irritation.  "I would tear out the heart of any idiot who assumed that a dance routine and a few riddles were enough to buy me-"**

 **"But what if it were a _good_ dance routine, Fenris?  You might fall in love with them then and there-"  Merrill went starry-eyed with romance.**

 **"Will the two of you shut up and let me continue the story?"  Varric rolled his eyes and began again-**

If he answered all three correctly, he would win the hand of the prince.  If he failed, he had to leave Kirkwall, never to be seen again-

 **"Oh, that's much better," Merrill interjected.**

 **Varric cleared his throat in irritation.**

 **"...Right, sorry."**

If he answered all three correctly, he would win the hand of the prince.  If he failed, he had to leave Kirkwall, never to be seen again.

Fenris was convinced that the harsh Law would keep suitors away, yet it did not.  To his great surprise, there were a great many, both elves and _shem_ who were willing to gamble their homes and livelihoods for the challenge.  Their eagerness for the contest filled Fenris with smoldering contempt, and his heart was filled with icy insolence towards the foolish would-be suitors.  He was convinced that they were desperate idiots, not after love or even the considerable bragging rights of sleeping with a dangerous elvhen prince worth a king's ransom in lyrium, but for the sheer thrill of risking it all for an impossible goal.

In an effort to further discourage them, Fenris ordered that each suitor who failed the challenge was to be stripped of all of their clothing and sent from Kirkwall naked and shivering, said clothing made into flags that would decorate the vhenadahl tree as a warning.  Soon, the tree was gaily festooned with evidence of the many, many suitors who had failed.  No doubt this dismal display made some of the better-dressed suitors reconsider, yet year after year more suitors came.

******************************************************************************************

Living in such an atmosphere, the elves of Kirkwall grew sullen and barbarous.  They had _far_ too many potholders, the meagre flowerbeds had been mercilessly plundered, and the vhenadahl tree groaned under the weight of so much wasted clothing.  The elves looked forward to each new suitor's failure and awaited each embarrassing exile with grim enthusiasm.

As time passed, strange stories and beliefs concerning the prince sprang up amongst the people.  They believed, for example, that the ghosts of his failed suitors haunted the alienage.

 **"Are they really dead, Varric?  I thought they just left the city, naked."**

 **"Daisy, what happens when we leave the city, even with our clothes on?"**

 **"Well, we usually get attacked by bandits or slavers or gangs or darkspawn- Oh, I see."**

 **"Don't worry, Daisy, it's just a story."**

On nights of the full moon, if one dared to look, one could see ghostly, naked forms leaping and twirling around the vhenadahl tree, ghostly feet tapping on the cobblestones, voices ringing faintly-

 _Cloudreach did not blossom, nor did the snow melt.  From Sundermount to the Wounded Coast, do you not hear our voices, Fenris?  We who failed to prove our love, love you now and always will._

One evening, the prince's low rumble and the Keeper's voice sounded from inside her house, and a shiver of excitement struck the elves scattered around the alienage, waiting to hear whether there would be a wedding or another suitor sent to exile.

Just then the Keeper appeared.  " _Aneth ara_ , my people," she called out.  "The Prince of Starkhaven has attempted to answer the three riddles, but fortune was against him.  Tonight, he shall be stripped, err, _stark_ naked, and Kirkwall will no longer be his _haven._   This is the Law!"

 **Anders groaned.  "Varric-"**

 **"Oh, come on, Blondie, live a little.  What's a good story without a bad pun or two?"**

As the Keeper finished speaking, the crowd surged forward, shouting, "Hang his belt buckle from the vhenadahl!"

Caught up in the turmoil were three strangers to the city- Tabris, a flame-haired elvhen vixen, Warden-Commander of Ferelden, her partner, Warden Alistair, and their companion and friend, the Antivan Prince of Crows, Zevran Arainai.  

Wanting to get a better view of the soon-to-be stark-naked Prince of Starkhaven, Zevran pulled his companions to a nearby stack of crates, which they nimbly climbed.

"Do we really have to stay and watch this?" Alistair groused.  "I don't care if he is the Prince of Starkhaven, I'm simply not interested in watching a bunch of elves tear his clothes off."

"You'd better not be," Tabris said with a toss of her hair and a baring of teeth.  "You know I don't share."

"More's the pity, my dear Warden," Zevran sighed, "But I for one wish to see this Prince of Starkhaven, and if we are so fortunate, this famed Prince Fenris."

Silence fell in the public square as the Keeper's door creaked open.  At the same time, a cool wind swept through the city, the air chill with the imminent sunset.  

As the wind tickled his bare assets underneath his leather skirt, Zevran shivered deliciously.  "I do not envy the Prince of Starkhaven, to be cast naked from the city on such a night."

Slowly, deliberately, the copper-haired Vael marched into the public square.  When the crowd saw him, shining like a beacon of holy Andraste's light, they began to shout.  The Prince ignored the catcalls and jeers, lost in thought, face soft with emotion.

Abruptly the crowd's enthusiasm began to wane.  "He's such a handsome, noble man," some said.  Others, looking on in pity, murmured to themselves, "The poor _shem_ couldn't help falling in love with our prince."

"Spare him!" they began to shout.  "Mercy for the witless human!" they pleaded.

******************************************************************************************

Alistair put a hand over his eyes.  "I really don't want to see this," he muttered.  Tabris shrugged and looked at Zev.  "Shall we get some drinks?  I hear the Hanged Man makes a mean mystery stew-"

Zev's eyes were on the shining prince- yes, he was a fine specimen of a man, indeed, and underneath all that armor was an archer's physique-

"Let us stay a while longer," he wheedled, and Tabris rolled her eyes.  He noted that the young prince's expression held no remorse or fear.  His step was sure, his head was held high, and his aqua eyes glowed with love.

Continuing to call for mercy, the crowd jostled and muttered.  Wanting to get a closer look, Zevran hopped down and wandered into the crowd.  "What sort of man is this Prince Fenris that suitors gladly face shame and exile for him?"  Zevran wondered aloud.

An elf behind him answered, "Some say it is the prince who should be pitied.  But you must be a stranger, for I've lived here all my life, and I've never seen you or the redhead-" he nodded at Tabris- "before."

"That is correct, my astute friend," Zevran said smoothly.  "What can you tell me of these events?"

The elf explained the rules of the competition, then added, "It's a strange tale that some tell about the prince.  You see, there are those among us who whisper that Fenris is under a spell.  Some believe that Fen'Harel tricked the prince into receiving the markings on his skin, and that they have frozen his heart.  One day, they hope, the fire of love will thaw our cold-hearted prince.  But I doubt that will ever happen."

By now, the crowd had reached the city gate, and the people's shouts for mercy grew so loud that the prince himself stepped outside to see what was happening.

His cool, aloof beauty stunned the shouting crowd, the first glints of starlight shining on his gleaming markings, and the assembled people fell quiet.  Only three people continued to gaze at Fenris- the besotted Prince of Starkhaven, Zevran, and the Keeper at the city gate.

The prince's markings began to shimmer, and he glowed with an otherworldly light.  Slowly, he lifted one gauntleted hand, then drew it into a fist.  That single, imperious gesture sealed the fate of the hapless Prince of Starkhaven, and the Keeper nodded- he would receive no mercy.

Tabris glanced over to see Zevran lick his lips, a warm, wicked smile on his face.  "Zev," she sighed, "We really don't have time for you to play with the pretty elf."

But Zevran ignored her, drinking in the sight of the glowing, silver-haired, green-eyed warrior prince.

"Zev?" Alistair said, helpfully, waving a gauntleted hand in front of his face.  "Zevran?  Zeeeeevran?  Zev?  Zev? Zev? Zev-"

"Yes, Alistair," he acknowledged at last, putting a stop to the Ferelden's incessant bids for attention.

"Can we go now?  I'm getting hungry, you know, and it's cold out, and late-"

"Go?" Zevran replied at last, "How can I, when the sight of such beauty fills my soul?"

"Stew-" Alistair coaxed, "And ale, and bread, with cheese-"

"Alistair's right," Tabris said.  "It's getting late, and it's idiotic to keep watching this parade."

"Ah, but that's where you are wrong, my dear Warden," Zev purred, "for to have such a man as that gives my life meaning."

"It will mean a quick trip out of Kirkwall minus your favorite armor," Tabris predicted darkly.

At the gates, the Prince of Starkhaven stared longingly at the aloof elvhen prince, stripped of his armor and clothing.  As they pulled his braies off, he shivered, calling forlornly, "Fenris!"

Zevran mmm'ed to himself.  A fine specimen of a man indeed, nicely muscled, with a smattering of copper hair across his chest.  He wasn't at his best, seeing as it was quite chilly out, but it would be a shame to waste such beauty-

"Do you really want to end up like him?" Alistair asked in exasperation.

"Ah, but I will succeed where he has failed, my large friend.  In the meantime, perhaps you would be willing to rescue our friend there, and see him provisioned for the trip back to Starkhaven?  A Prince's gratitude is always useful," he said with a smile.

******************************************************************************************

 **"Wait, you're marrying me off to the _assassin?_ "  Fenris sounded aggrieved. **

**"What about the handsome apostate with the incredible dancing skills?"  Anders chimed in.**

 **"Silence, mage," Fenris growled.**

 **"But-"**

 **"Perhaps you do not wish to sit for _another_ week," the elf said, and the apostate gulped.**

 **"Listen, Broody, it's just a story- do you want me to stop?"**

 **"You could do worse than Zevran," Isabela chimed in.**

 **Fenris rolled his eyes.  "I need another drink," he said, grouchily.**

Tabris sighed.  "No rest for the wicked, then.  Come on, Alistair, let's leave Zev to his little game."

"But-" the Ferelden looked at her with puppy eyes and a slight pout.  "What about the stew, and the bread, and the ale, and the cheese?"

"It'll have to wait," she said firmly, taking him by the wrist and dragging him off.

"Cheese-" came his forlorn cry.

Zevran put them from his thoughts, considering what kind of dance might inflame his haughty elvhen prince.  Perhaps- yes, that would work.

Pulling the smooth leather of his Dalish gloves tight and throwing his cloak dashingly over one shoulder, Zevran strutted into the open.  The wind blew a few scraps of canvas across the way, and a cat scurried behind a crate as Zevran flipped a sovereign in the air, then caught it in time with his rhythmic steps.  As he stepped across the open area, he caught sight of a drunken elf, passed out next to a beggar's bowl, and flipped the coin easily into the bowl.

One of the other elves pointed as he continued to strut, and a whisper moved through the crowd.   _Yes, my friends,_ he thought smugly, _Prepare to be amazed._   Putting one boot on a nearby crate (and simultaneously giving a teasing glimpse of a long stretch of bare thigh), he pulled out a cloth and buffed a bit of nonexistent dirt from the buttery leather.

The cat sprang out from the box with a yowl, pursued by a randy tom, and Zev gave the cat an amused grin.   _Good luck in your hunt, amigo._

He continued to strut to the vhenadahl tree, then leaned nonchalantly against it as the crowd began to gather.  "My friends," he said, voice rich with promise, "I present to you a dance of my own invention, crafted with years of _experience_ ," he made the word sound deliciously dirty, "in Antiva."  Without further ado he threw a small smoke bomb, and when the air cleared seconds later, the crowd buzzed with surprise-

The tan elf with the smirk and the foreign tattoos was nowhere to be seen.

When he stepped nonchalantly out of the shadows and strutted back into the torchlight, the crowd muttered appreciatively.  Zev set his boots shoulder-width apart and began to rock in place, then brought his cloak under his arm and turned the last rock into another strutting step, setting an alluring rhythm.  The elves began to clap in time with his movements, and he looked up to see even the shining prince keeping time with bored taps of his gauntlets.

 _Elves and frolicking- it's irresistible_ , he thought, shrugging the cloak on in one graceful movement, then spinning and drawing the hood over his head.  He strutted a few more steps, throwing in a hip thrust for good measure, then spun again. jumping for a moment nimbly to the tips of his toes.

The crowd began walking in time to the beat, and Zev knew he'd won.  A few more steps of fancy footwork, another spin, more of the rocking rhythm, and he felt the moment they burst spontaneously into dance behind him.  

He strutted up the rickety steps to the landing where the prince waited, feeling as if every step were bathed in moonlight beneath him.  The prince's lips were pressed together disapprovingly, but Zev saw those delectable ankles tapping, and knew it was with sheer force of will that the prince himself resisted the urge to dance.

"So, my prince," he purred, "Shall we talk?"

 **"Elves do not _frolic_ ," Fenris growled, "and neither do I."**

 **"Shush, Broody," Varric answered, "You told me yourself that you choreograph dance routines in your spare time.  If you can't take the heat-"**

 **"Fine," the elf conceded through clenched teeth.**

 **"We don't really frolic like that," Merrill said apologetically.  "But- it sounds like fun!"**

 **"Don't worry about it, Daisy," Varric said.**

*****************************************************************************************

"Do you know the penalty should you answer any of the riddles incorrectly?" the prince rumbled, and Zev's breath caught at the sound of that velvet voice as it went straight to his cock.

"I do, my prince," he replied, giving the elf his best "tent-time" eyes.  The silver-haired warrior gulped and looked away.  "Then let the riddles begin," he declared, beckoning Zevran towards the Keeper's house.

Once inside, the prince turned to him, and said quietly, "The riddles are three, and exile your fate."

Zevran shook his head, then reached up to tuck a stray hair behind his ear, noting that the prince watched every movement with a barely disguised hunger.

"The riddles are three, and love shall be my fate," he answered.

"We shall see," said the prince, turning to flop moodily into one of the Keeper's chairs.

"Right," said the Keeper, "Just let me get my list, here-" she fumbled around for a long scroll of parchment full of crossed-off riddles.

"Oh dear," she said, "we're down to the Pirate Queen Isabela's.  Oh well."  She shrugged her slim shoulders, then began:

"This is the first riddle:  Why is air a lot like sex?"

The prince choked in his chair.  "Keeper!" he said in a strangled voice.

"Sorry, Fenris," she replied, "But since we're letting them go we have to change up the riddles, otherwise they'd just give away the answers."

Zevran thought for a few moments, then grinned.  "Air is a lot like sex because it is of relatively little importance unless you are not getting any."  He bowed to the chair. "And thank you, my prince, for your helpful illustration."  

The Keeper moved her finger down the parchment.  "Correct!" she said with a smile, "You've answered the first riddle correctly!"

The prince froze in his chair.

"So-" the Keeper said distractedly- "The second riddle is- oh, here it is.  What's the difference between sin and shame?"

Zevran grinned at her.  "'Tis a sin to put it in," he smirked, "but a shame to pull it out."

The prince put his head and arms on the table and groaned.

"Correct!" The Keeper said brightly.  "Well, we might have a wedding after all!"

Zevran grinned at her.  "As long as there is a wedding night, dear Keeper."

"So-" she fumbled with the scroll.  "The third riddle is:  What's the difference between light and hard?"

He heard a whimper from the silver-haired prince.

"One can sleep with a light on," Zev answered in triumph.

"Is that- hm, it seems to be correct, but I don't-" the Keeper looked puzzled.  "Well, according to Isabela, you're right, so you've won the Challenge, and the prince's hand!"

"Keeper," came Fenris' muffled voice, "Please, reconsider."

She tutted.  "You made up the rules, Fenris," she said, "And you'll have to live with them."

"Spare me," he said, raising his head from the table with the dreaded Puppy Eyes in full force.

The Keeper put her hands on her hips.  "The law is clear, and by your own conditions, this elf risked exile for you, and he has won."

"I won't marry you," Fenris growled, "Are you such a beast that you'd marry a man against his will?"

Zevran bit his lip.  "No, _amor_ ," he said softly, "Only if you are willing.  But here, you have set three riddles before me; I'll put but one to you.  What is my name?  Give me the answer by tomorrow morning, and I'll leave the city with no further claim to you."

******************************************************************************************

Stunned by the stranger's generosity, Fenris watched as the attractive elf bowed in a courtly fashion, taking his leave.  Moments later he sprung into action with a growl.

"No one sleeps in the alienage tonight!" He announced.  "Whoever can give the name of the stranger shall be rewarded- whoever dares conceal it shall face death."

The elves of the alienage scattered immediately, breaking curfew and spreading out into the city, desperate to find the stranger's name.

In the meantime, Zevran found Alistair, Tabris, and a bedraggled Prince of Starkhaven outside the city.

Tabris gave him a knowing glance.  "How's the hunting?" she asked, and he grinned back at her.  "I shall know by morning, my Warden."  He glanced circumspectly at the mournful Prince and decided against further elaboration.

Alistair glared at him but remained silent, no doubt put out by another night of camping.

After a few hours they settled down, Zevran taking the first watch.  As he idly cleaned under his fingernails with a dagger, he heard a pair of boots approaching their camp.

"I suggest you identify yourself, stranger," he said mildly, his excellent night vision revealing a handsome, rather scruffy man wearing a ridiculous coat.

"I'm here about the prince," the man snapped, and Zevran raised an eyebrow.  "I didn't realize elvhen matters were any of your business," he answered.

The man flushed.  "It's not that," he said, "Fenris is a...friend," he finished lamely.

"Ah, there is some attachment between you?" Zevran asked regretfully.  He was many things, but he would not stand in the path of true love.

"Not as such," the mage admitted reluctantly.  

"But you desire him," Zev concluded.  "As much as I hate to say it, I myself am drawn to the prince, and if he has no other committments, I see no great difficulty in bringing him with me."

"But it's not- just," the mage said with difficulty, struggling with the words.  "He doesn't love you-"

"It is not that he does not love me," Zevran corrected with a hint of menace, "It is that he does not love me _yet_.  I believe this discussion is over."

"I have a magical sword I can give you," the mage said desperately, and Zev's eyebrows rose.  

"A tempting offer, my friend," he said at last, and the mage flushed.

"No!" he said.  "I mean-" he pulled out a gleaming blade from behind him.  "A magical sword, not- that," he said.  "Just tell me your name, and it's yours!  It was a gift from Andraste herself to Shartan!"

Zevran shook his head.  "Do you value your prince so little?" he said.  "I would not trade him for the finest sword in Thedas."

 **"Wait, wait, wait," Anders said, "Are you saying that Fenris would prefer Zevran over me?"**

 **Varric rolled his eyes.  "For the umpteenth time, Blondie, it's a _story_ , and you're not the hero.  You wanted to be in it, fine.  You're the unrequited lover."**

 **Anders pouted until the elf leaned over and whispered in his ear.  "Of course I would," he muttered, and when the elf put one gauntleted hand over his, he looked pleased.  "Fine," he said.**

"Anders?" came a disbelieving voice from behind Zevran, and the mage froze with a look of utter terror on his face.  "W-warden-Commander?" he stuttered.

"Oh, you and I are going to _talk_ ," she said, and Zevran grimaced.  

"You'd have been better off staying in the city, my unlucky friend," he said, hearing the human's whimper of fear as Tabris dragged him off.

A few hours later, bruised and bloody, the mage limped back over to where Zevran sat.  "Well, that went better than I expected," he muttered.  "Anyway- did you mean it, about not trading Fenris for the finest sword in Thedas?"

"Of course," Zevran said.  "I desire nothing more than the prince."

"If that's the case," the mage said, reluctantly, "then I wish you well.  He deserves someone who values him above all else."

The two men shared a glance, and Zevran held out his hand.  Shaking hands, the mage nodded.  "Farewell, then," he said sadly, and limped off towards Kirkwall.

******************************************************************************************

The next morning at dawn, Zevran returned to the alienage.  "My lyrium prince, son of the Elvhen," he called, "I have returned for your answer."

Fenris stepped outside, closing the door to his hovel behind him.  "I am here," he said, heavily.  Zevran noticed that the elf looked tired- no doubt he had spent all night trying to learn Zevran's name.  Stepping forward, he reached up a hand and brushed a lock of silvery hair behind one pointed ear, feeling the other man shiver underneath his touch.

"Is it such a terrible fate to be bound to me, _amor_?" Zevran asked softly.

"You are- a brave and generous man," the prince said in a low voice, "And if I were capable of love, I would love one such as you.  But I have no wish to be bound to another- tell me, generous stranger, what must I do to be free of you?"

Zevran sighed.  "You need only ask, _amor_.  I cannot refuse you."

"Then what is your secret?" the prince whispered.  "You know mine.  From the moment I saw you, I knew you were unlike the others."  He bit his lip, emerald eyes wide and pleading, and when Zevran cupped his cheek, a single tear fell from his eye.

"I have never wept for another," he whispered.  "I despised the others, but I fear you.  I'm torn, divided; conquer you or be conquered?  Is this not victory enough for you?"

"No, for I have no wish to hurt you, my shining prince," Zevran said sadly.

"Then leave me my dignity- give me my freedom," Fenris begged.

Zevran turned away from him, considering.  "Very well, _amor_ , I will make you a gift, though you doom us both should you choose to use it.  My name is Zevran Arainai, Prince of Crows, and although I am without land or wealth, I offer you all that I have and all that I am."

He held out a hand, and in it gleamed a single, shining earring.

As the sun rose, the elves of the alienage filtered back into the common area surrounding the vhenadahl.  

"The time has come," the Keeper said, "Do you know the stranger's name?"

Fenris looked at him, at the outstretched hand holding the simple adornment, and in that moment made his decision.  "Yes," he answered, taking the earring, "I do.  His name is... Love."

Zevran strode forward and in a single fluid movement embraced the prince.  "Together, we shall strike fear into the hearts of all that oppose us," he whispered tenderly, "and between us, only love shall rule."

He kissed the prince amidst cheers of joy and a sigh of happiness from the Keeper.

A wedding was quickly arranged, and before the elves of Kirkwall, the assassin and the prince swore to love and cherish each other for the rest of their days.

In the years that followed, they brought swift death and destruction to the corrupt within the Crows, restoring Zevran to his rightful place as king.  Beside him, ever vigilant, ever loving, stood his prince, earring glittering in his pointed ear, and they spent the rest of their days drinking fine Antivan wine and finding new and creative ways to kill their contracts.  They earned greath wealth, respect, and power, but in truth, as long as they had each other, they were content.

 **"Fine wine, wealth, respect, power, and love," Fenris said.  "I suppose I could settle for that."**

 **Anders pouted.  "You'd miss me," he said.**

 **Fenris raised an eyebrow at him.  "You think so?" he smirked.**

 **Anders raised his chin with pride.  "Four times in one night," he said firmly.**

 **"You- may have a point," the elf admitted.**

 **"So-" Garrett said, breaking the awkward silence.**

 **"That was lovely," Merrill interjected.  "Won't you tell another, Varric?"**

 **Varric grinned at her and settled back.  "Anything for you, Daisy," he said fondly.**


End file.
